


Imposter Syndrome

by Dredfulhapiness



Series: Love will make the flowers grow [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, I'm really embracing the dream sequences in this one, Iron Dad, M/M, Post-Endgame, Post-Spider-Man: Far From Home, Pushing Daisies AU, harry's in it so I gotta put that last tag in there, tw drug use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:54:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25350451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dredfulhapiness/pseuds/Dredfulhapiness
Summary: After graduation, Peter's life is finally on track. There are no more secrets clogging the air, no more tragedies looming over him. He's adjusting to his new normal.The universe has always been a fan of throwing a wrench into his plans.(sequel to Pressed Flowers)
Relationships: Harley Keener/Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Peter Parker/Mary Jane Watson
Series: Love will make the flowers grow [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1827601
Comments: 31
Kudos: 114





	1. Smoke Signals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is actually a sequel to [Pressed Flowers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24619897/chapters/59478280) so I recommend reading that first!
> 
> "You must have been looking for me/  
> sending smoke signals/  
> pelicans circling/  
> burning trash out on the beach"  
> -Smoke Signals, Phoebe Bridgers

The sky was a hazy pink when MJ’s car trundled to a stop outside the apartment building. There was an energy in the air-- like field day, or the last week of school. Electric. Peter felt lightning in his exhausted bones.

When Ned waved to him, Peter wiped the sleep out of his eyes and grinned. 

The passenger side window rolled down, and MJ leaned over both the center console and Ned to call out, “Get in, loser! We’re chasing teenage bliss!” 

Either she had woken up hours ago or she hadn’t slept. Either way, there was no trace of fatigue in her bones.

“We’ve already had a lot of coffee,” Ned apologized. “We got you a cup, though.” 

Peter tossed his bag into the trunk and slid into the backseat. “You’ll need it,” Flash said. He had a to-go cup in his hand, the tag string of a tea bag poking out from under the cap. “You look like shit. How much did you drink last night?” 

“I didn’t,” Peter said. He gratefully accepted the coffee Ned handed him.    
“Just didn’t sleep.” 

He’d spent the night turning over fitfully, waking regularly with a start. There was a dream at the top of his brain; when he tried to focus on it, he could see colors, or the outline of a shape, but he couldn’t bring it to light. Whatever it had been, it had been enough to waste his night. 

It was probably just the high of graduating and the anticipation of the morning. Like how he could never fall asleep the night before his birthday, or on Christmas Eve.

“We’re getting Harley, right?” MJ asked, pulling the GPS app up on her phone. 

“Mmhmm…” Peter gulped down his coffee. If the car ride had been any shorter, it would have burned his mouth. “Texted you the address.” 

“He staying with Tony?” Ned asked. 

“Yep-- I think he’s gonna try to sneak out, though, so Morgan doesn’t, like, flip.” 

“Aww, you’re not the favorite anymore?” MJ mock-pouted.

“Ha! He wishes. She’d flip because he was going somewhere with me and she wasn’t.” 

“Sorry,” Flash said, “Who’s Tony?”

“Uh,” Peter offered.

Ned beat him to it. He turned to face Flash. “Dude, Tony Stark.” 

Flash blinked at Ned. He opened his mouth into the shape of an insult, but he looked at Peter and faltered. There was no sign of a lie on Peter’s face-- no deepend crows feet or smile lines. 

He reverted back to his instincts.

“Ha! Yeah, right. I’m not gullible.” 

Peter shrugged. Took another sip of his coffee. “They’re family friends,” he said, because that was easier (and more respectful of Harley’s privacy) than telling the full story.

(Peter knew it like this: Tony Stark got his ass saved by eleven year old Harley Keener. For nine years he’d pretended  _ that  _ was the reason he treated Harley like family. 

In reality, it was a combination of fondness and guilt. Another kid dragged into a battle he wasn’t a part of. Then, later, another kid with daddy issues who lost his family far too young. 

For five years, he couldn’t fix that, so he paid the mortgage. He offered lodging that Harley repeatedly rejected. He silently deposited grocery money into Harley’s account. Pretended it didn’t come from him when Harley pressed him on it. 

Harley pretended he was stupid, because despite having the ground crumble beneath him, Harley wasn’t cruel. It made Tony feel better, after having dropped the ball, to pretend he was helping Harley.

Harley had a similar vice. For five years, he couldn’t fix the world that had been handed to him, but he could prepare for the moment the opportunity arose. He built weapons. A combination of fondness and guilt. Another kid who’d built tools when heroes had failed him. 

At least this one was alive. Tony could work with that.)

\--

Harley met them at the mouth of the driveway. There was a duffel bag hanging from his elbow. One headphone dangled from the wire. 

He used his hand as a visor when they pulled up, squinting against the sun.

“Mornin’!” Ned called from the open window. “You can throw your bag in the trunk.” 

He did. Peter slid into the middle seat. Harley squeezed his shoulder as he settled in behind Ned.

“Hey,” Harley said, his voice still raspy from sleep. “How are y’all?”

“Tired,” MJ said the same time Ned said, “Awake and ready to party.” 

Peter handed Harley his phone. There was a long aux cord connecting it to the radio. “Here, add some songs,” he said. “We’re just putting it on shuffle and seeing how the dice roll.”

“There’s a lot of Mamma Mia on here,” Harley said. 

“That was Peter,” Ned, MJ, and Flash said together. 

“I won’t apologize. That musical’s a treasure.”

“At least you didn’t add all the Billy Joel,” Ned said.

“Piano Man is good!” Flash said. “And Vienna--”

“Old people music,” MJ said.

“Can I guess who added the Lana Del Rey?” Harley asked pointedly, and MJ held her middle finger up. 

(They’d hit it off well the night before-- Peter had known they would. They spoke the same language: love as a subtlety. When they poked fun or cuffed you on the back of the head it was a vulnerability. 

When MJ stood and asked Harley, “You want another beer?” it was an admission of acceptance. 

When Harley said, “Sure, why not?” it was an acknowledgement.)

“I’m gonna guess Johnny Cash,” MJ said.

Harley clicked his tongue. “Why? Because I’m from the south? That’s a stereotype.” 

“Because you’re from the home of country music.” 

“You seem like more of a folk kinda guy,” Ned said. “Very Lumineers.” 

“Heavy metal?” MJ asked, “Slasher stuff?”

“Guys, he’s wearing a rock t-shirt,” Flash interjected. “It’s the most obvious thing.”

“He’s pretty into Grease, too,” Peter said, and Harley shoulder bumped him.

\--

_ Peter is sitting in the driver’s seat and the wheel is rigid under his grip. He can feel the purr of the engine beneath his seat, and if he strains he can hear it, too, above the sound of car doors being ripped open and seats being occupied. The car shakes as the doors close. _

_ “I still can’t believe we’re letting Peter drive,” someone says, and Peter knows her name is Gwen before he turns around to look at her. She looks at him, and her eyes wrinkle at the corners. In the sunlight, her blonde hair shines. There’s a cell phone hanging out of the chest pocket of her overalls.“You in the market for a new car, Harry?” _

I love her _ , Peter thinks, and the thought flies out of his brain as quickly as it appeared.  _

_ “C’mon,” Harry defends. He puts a hand on the back of Peter’s neck, and Peter can feel the pulse in his thumb. He’s taller than Peter, broader, and his hair is the color of rust. He looks familiar, but the harder Peter tries to focus on where he knows him from, the faster the memory breaks up in the blender of his brain. Peter stops trying to remember. “He’s not  _ that _ bad.”  _

_ “Which is why we put you in the passenger seat,” The other girl says solemnly. She’s sitting behind Peter, a camera wrapped around her neck. She leans forward and presses a kiss to Harry’s cheek. “You’ll be sincerely missed.” _

_ Her camera bumps into the back of the driver’s seat, she pats Peter’s shoulder, Peter thinks,  _ Mary Jane-- MJ _ , all within the space of one of Peter’s heartbeats.  _

_ “I’m not getting anyone killed,” Peter says, cross. He watches in the rearview mirror as MJ and Gwen’s faces twist with laughter. He flips them off, and it just makes them laugh harder.  _

_ “C’mon,” Gwen urges. “We’re gonna miss sunset.”  _

_ Peter looks out the window, and he stares at a blank white. There’s nothing around the car, no road, or parking lot, or street sign. He can hear street traffic, though; horns and shouting are muffled by the steel and glass of the car. It sounds like pressing a cup to a wall. Like yelling the wrong way through a megaphone. _

_ In his periphery, he watches Harry grab something from the glove compartment. He uncaps the orange pill bottle, and Peter frowns, the inkling of something at the back of his mind, a feather tickling at the base of his skull. The tremor of senses under his skin.  _

_ “Another headache?” he asks, concerned, and Harry makes a face as he swallows the pill dry. Harry waves a hand at him, shakes his head.  _

_ “‘M fine,” he dismisses, grabbing a sip of his soda from the cup holder. “C’mon--” and he looks back at Gwen, a glint in his eye. “We’re gonna miss sunset.”  _

Peter woke slowly. He heard talking first, quiet, then Lizzo, then felt the jostling of uneven pavement. And then he heard the heartbeat. A metronome. He opened his eyes. 

His head was pressed against Harley’s chest, cheek scrunched against the logo of his ACDC T-shirt. Harley’s phone was open in his lap, an email half-drafted. Peter shifted, and Harley turned his phone screen off before Peter could sit fully up. 

“Good nap?” he asked Peter, lips set in a half-formed smirk. “Looks like it.” He waved a hand in front of Peter’s face. His eyes twinkled.

“Y’coulda moved me,” Peter mumbled, still working to get his bearings. “Couldn’t’ve been comfortable.” 

He wet his lips and looked around the interior of the car. Flash was asleep beside him, his sunglasses slowly making their way down the bridge of his nose.

Ned turned in his seat to look at Peter, and he could see MJ peeking back through the rearview. Peter rubbed at his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt. 

“You seemed like you needed the sleep,” Harley said. “Plus, MJ and Ned were telling me your most embarrassing stories.” He flashed his teeth. Peter rubbed at his cheek and could feel the indents where Harley’s shirt had wrinkled under him. 

“Great, just what you need. Ammo.” 

Peter could see Ned shooting him a thumbs up, just out of the range of Harley’s vantage. He ignored him. 

“What did they tell you?”

“All in due time,” MJ said. 

Peter rolled his eyes. “How long was I asleep?”

“All of New Jersey,” Harley said. “Lucky you.” 

“Spoken like a true New Yorker,” Ned praised. 

Peter felt Harley’s gaze before he saw it. “What?” Peter asked, one arm searching the floor of his car for his water bottle. 

“You alright?” Harley asked, low enough for only Peter to hear. 

“Weird dream.” Peter cleared his throat. He found his water bottle and pulled it up by the rubber handle. He opened his mouth to ask what time it was, but he never got the chance.

Flash woke with a start and a strangled cry. MJ jerked the car to the right. The car groaned as they ran over the rumble strip. The car behind them slammed their horn. Over the top of his sunglasses, Peter could see Flash’s eyes desperately searching the cabin of the car. His mouth was parted, sweat formed on the back of his neck. His knuckles were white around the door handle.

“Flash-- Hey, you okay?” Peter asked, and for a moment Flash just stared at him. 

MJ guided the car back onto the road. 

He cleared his throat. “Fine, yeah,” he said. He took his glasses off and rubbed at his eyes. His hands were shaking. “Sorry. My sleep apnea…” 

Peter frowned at him. 

He didn’t offer more of an explanation. No one asked one of him.

\--

“Banana!” MJ and Harley cried out suddenly. Ned, a quick echo, “... Banana!” 

Flash and Peter started. Their seatbelts locked when they lurched forward. Peter rubbed at his shoulder, grimacing. 

“What the fuck?” Flash asked at the same time Peter shot Ned a curious look. Harley laughed into his fist and played it off as a cough. 

“Harley taught us a game while you were asleep,” Ned said. “You yell  _ banana  _ when you see a yellow car.”

“That’s it?” Flash asked. “That’s the game?”

“I lost the game,” MJ said, smug. 

“Fuck you!” Ned whined. Peter snorted. 

“Schoolbuses don’t count,” Harley said. “That’s really important.” 

“What about taxis?” Peter asked. 

“You’d be hard pressed to find a taxi out here,” Flash said, because of course he used expressions like  _ hard pressed.  _

It sent relief down Peter’s spine. Flash had been quiet since he’d woken up. An embarrassed quiet, Peter thought. He’d been staring at his phone for nearly an hour, teeth worrying at his bottom lip. Shrunken in on himself. 

“I’m stopping for gas,” MJ said, pulling onto an exit. “Someone else has gotta take over.” 

“I can,” Harley said, then quickly, “If you don’t mind me driving your car.” 

MJ glanced at him in the rearview. “You ever hit anything?” 

“No ma’am.”

Peter bit the inside of his cheek.

“You can have her,” MJ conceded. 

They didn’t end up leaving right after getting gas. The town they pulled into was made of stucco and wood. Some of the streets were cobblestone-- long, and winding, and easy to trip over. The town was old. There were plaques on storefronts that marked historical significance. Harley’s eyes trained over them as they walked past. Sometimes his face would light up and he’d spout out a fact. 

“That Walgreens was built in 1760,” He said, tugging on Flash’s sleeve like a child. “Want to get a picture with it?” 

Flash’s eyes crossed for a second, Peter saw him trying to decipher whether or not Harley was making fun of him. 

“Yeah, sure,” he said boldly enough for it to be evident he was calling a bluff. 

He wasn’t.

Harley made the picture look like Flash was holding the Walgreens logo, and Peter placed another shard of glass in the mosaic he saw when he looked at Harley. 

They split off. MJ and Ned wanted to check out the thrift stores, and Harley had been charmed by one of the local gift shops. It reminded Peter of the ones in Times Square. It was less cluttered, though. Peter could wander down the aisles without fear of knocking over a thirty dollar snow globe. Sunlight came in through the window display rather than being obscured by posters and neon lights.

Harley flipped through a book of the town’s history, something small and sepia. Peter and Flash thumbed through the collection of novelty t-shirts. They all had pictures of white-tailed deer, and camouflage, and American flags with sayings about gun rights. 

There were a few gems in there, though. Some insane shirts for Gettysburg College. Hyper specific, like you’d see them in a Facebook ad. 

_ I’m the type of grandpa who is perfectly happy with my grandkids and The Bullet. _

“The Bullet?” Peter asked. Flash flipped the shirt around, revealed the GBurg logo. 

“I think it’s their mascot,” he said. The back of the shirt said  _ Bullets  _ with a bullet marking the top of the  _ e.  _

“Jesus,” Peter said. “What a terrible mascot.” 

“You know, I kinda like it,” Flash said, holding it up to his chest. He looked at his reflection in the mirror. “I think it makes me look tough.”

“I guess you’ll just have to bite the bullet and buy it, then,” Peter said, and he turned around to laugh when Flash glared at him through the mirror. 

“Jesus, Parker, that wasn’t even  _ clever.”  _

“When I’m a famous comedian,” Peter warned, “then you will appreciate my genius.”

Flash turned away.

Peter wandered farther into the store. Past the magnets and novelty welcome mats, toward the small selection of second hand items. Yellowed postcards and dated political pins. 

Peter took his phone out of his pocket, shot a text off to Tony:  **Everything okay in NY?**

Tony texted back:  **It’s been seven hours. It’s burnt to the ground.**

Peter busied himself with admiring hand towels that felt like sandpaper. They all said  _ God Bless America  _ and  _ All you need is family  _ and  _ wine is my emotional support animal. _

“Close your eyes and hold out your hand.”

Harley’s voice startled Peter. He sounded giddy, and when Peter turned, his eyes were sparkling. 

Peter closed his eyes and held out his hand. “What?” He asked, tone low with fake condescension. 

Harley pressed something cool and metal into his palm.

It was a Spider-Man keychain. A poorly made one, at that; the suit was maroon, the eyes were perfect circles. The pattern of the webbing was so off-center it didn’t even reach the left side, just tapered off into maroon. The carving at the bottom said  _ spiber-man. _

“You won’t  _ believe  _ the deal I got on this thing,” Harley said, and Peter laughed so hard his stomach hurt. He hooked it onto his key ring, between his key to the apartment and his key to the lake house. 

“Wow, you two are adorable,” Flash deadpanned behind them. Through the display mirror, Peter could see his arms cross over his chest. 

Harley’s eye twitched. Peter winked at him.

“Okay, Flash,” Peter said, turning around. “Be honest…” He put on a pair of child’s sunglasses. They had tiny America flags all over the rims. “Does this make my head look big?”

Flash rolled his eyes, but Peter saw his shoulders jump.

They ran back into Ned and MJ outside of the bank. The late afternoon air was hot and sticky, and both of their faces were red from walking. 

They stormed up to the trio.

“There’s a tattoo parlour,” MJ said seriously. She grabbed Peter’s sleeve. Held it.

Peter blinked. “What?” 

“There’s a tattoo parlour. We wanna get tattoos.” 

“Uh--” Flash balked. “That’s probably not a great--”

“Your mother would kill me,” Peter said, looking past MJ at Ned. “You understand that, right? If you came back with a tattoo your mother would kill me and make you watch.”

“Woof,” Harley said ruefully. 

“You could get a little Yoda,” Ned pleaded. “Baby Yoda-- he can be holding a sandwich.” 

“Parker, do  _ not  _ get a tattoo of Yoda holding a sandwich,” Flash said.

_ “Baby  _ Yoda,” MJ corrected him. “The cute one.”

“That’s a terrible tattoo,” Flash said. 

“Aw, c’mon,” Harley said, elbowing Flash. “You could get a Spider-Man tattoo. I bet he’d think that was cool.”

Peter stomped on Harley’s foot. He kicked Peter’s ankle. Silently, they had a conversation.

Harley’s face said,  _ Come on, it’s funny! _

Peter’s said,  _ Yeah, it is, but also: don’t.  _

“Peter?” Ned asked, and Peter spread his arms. Shrugged.

“I can’t get a tattoo anyway,” he pointed out. “I’m only seventeen.” 

“Shit,” Ned said.

“Ha,” Harley said, pointing at Peter. “Baby!” 

“Thank God,” Flash said. “It was a terrible idea.”

\--

They found a room with two beds and a loveseat. It was off an unlit exit, right behind a Cracker Barrel, with a vacancy sign whose ‘n’ flickered. The parking lot was dead save for a single utility van. The main office was yellowed-- presumably from the smoke it smelled like-- and while checking them in, the man at the front desk hardly looked up from the game of online poker he had been playing.

“Charming…” Flash said as they stepped into the room. He clicked his tongue and turned up his nose. “Looks like a place where you’d find a dead body in the ice machine.” 

The carpet was peeling away from the floor in the corner. The beds were barely two feet apart, pressed against a single nightstand in the middle. The curtains were a hideous floral pattern straight out of the sixties. One wall was made of panelings of dark wood. Peter crinkled his nose at the overwhelming smell of mildew.

“That’s just the vibe of motels,” Harley said. He dropped his bag in front of the window. 

“The atmosphere is half the appeal,” Ned agreed. “Like Disney World.”

“Or a horror movie,” Flash said.

MJ changed the subject. “Who wants the beds?”

“I don’t want to sleep under the sheets at Bates Motel,” Flash said. “I’ll take the couch.”

“Fine by me,” Ned mumbled. “I’ll share with MJ?”

“Mmm,” MJ said, already face-planting onto the bed. “Driving is exhausting,” She said solemnly.

“How are  _ you _ feeling?” Peter asked Harley.

Harley was mid-stretch, bending his elbow behind his head. He’d driven the last four hours while Ned, Peter, and Flash played a competitive game of Jeopardy (with your host: Michelle Jones). 

Harley had chimed in occasionally, too, his horn a makeshift buzzer. (a few different drivers gave them the finger for that. Someone in a smart car even brake checked them). He was quick with car trivia-- knew which year the first Model T was made, and that the Honda Accord had been the first Japanese car to be produced in America.

He also filled in a decent amount of superhero questions Flash missed. 

(“What is five ph.Ds?” Flash had answered after pressing the duck sound effect on his phone. 

MJ made a buzzer sound with her mouth. “Sorry, that is incorrect.” 

Harley beeped the horn. 

“Keener, you’re up,” Michelle “Alex Trebek” said. 

“What is  _ seven  _ ph.Ds?” 

“You’re on the board with two hundred points.”

“Dark horse candidate!” Ned hollered, delighted.)

“Tired,” Harley said. He ran a hand through his hair and his curls loosened out. “I’m gonna shower in the morning. You mind.” 

Peter shook his head. “Knock yourself out, man.”

He took that literally.

In less than an hour, the lights were out. Peter fell asleep to soft shuffling and the sound of Ned snoring.

_ The walls are crude and half-formed. Cinderblock that fades into oblivion. Peter hangs a poster on them, anyway. When he looks at it, it’s out of focus. Censored. He grabs another piece of tape.  _

_ The door opens.  _

_ Peter feels anticipation like an exhale. The walls seem to bow as his roommate enters.  _ Pause for applause,  _ Peter thinks, though he isn’t sure why.  _

_ Harry isn’t whole. If Peter tried to describe him while awake, the only words he’d manage would be  _ an idea.  _ He blurs at the edges, his face warps as he looks around.  _

_ Peter grins at him. _

_ “Hey,” he says, hand out. “I’m Peter Parker. It’s nice to meet you.” _

_ “Harry.” And they shake, and Peter feels his lungs tremble. Like he’s coming apart. A ghost rattle. “That name sounds so familiar-- have we met before?”  _

_ “I don’t think so,” Peter says. He steps back onto his side of the room. “It might just be the alliteration.” _

_ Harry clears his throat. The interaction is awkward, but it’s hard to feel uncomfortable around him. Peter realizes this early on. Harry is a magnet. A green light.  _

_ “I was about to head out to lunch,” he says. “I could use the company.”  _

_ He doesn’t ask, only offers.  _

_ Peter blinks. He’s holding something, but when he looks down he can’t make out the shape.  _

_ “Sounds great,” he says, and Harry has already turned around. He’s digging around for something in his closet, but Peter can’t see it. He’s staring directly at him, but it’s like looking through his periphery.  _

_ Peter puts the things he’s holding in his desk drawer. He grabs the last thing in the box. _

_ Harry turns on his heel, snaps and points at Peter. “Spider-Man,” he says, like giving name to an identity.  _

_ Peter nearly drops the textbook he’s holding. “What?” He croaks, suddenly hot under the collar.  _

_ “You’re the guy who takes pictures of Spider-Man, right? That’s how I know your name.” He’s looking just behind Peter, at where his camera sits on the bed. It hadn’t been there a moment before, Peter is sure of it.  _

_ Peter laughs nervously. “Ohh… Right. Yeah, that’s me. I didn’t realize I had fans.” _

_ “They’re great shots,” Harry says. He watches Peter get his things together: wallet in his pocket, phone in the other, keys around his wrist. Peter frowns at his camera, then opts to leave it. “You been taking pictures a while?” _

_ “I did yearbook in high school,” Peter says, making his way over to the door. “That’s about it.” _

_ “And the Spider-Man pictures,” Harry says as they exit the room. The door closes behind them. _

Peter woke up before the sun had risen. Beside him, Harley was asleep on his stomach, one arm under his pillow, the other hanging off the edge of the bed. He could hear Ned snoring on the other bed, see the outline of MJ under the sheets.

Flash was awake, though he didn’t seem to have noticed Peter. He was on the loveseat, legs thrown over the arm. At first, Peter thought his phone was in his lap, but there was no light shining on his face. The blinds cast horizontal shadows across the room, a pattern of orange street lamps and darkness. 

Between the slats, Flash was staring at his legs, blankly, a frown etched across his face. He’d refused to use the hotel blanket and settled, instead, to throw his jacket overtop of himself. He was flexing his feet, rolling his ankles.

Peter frowned.

He slipped out of bed and Flash’s head snapped up, eyes wide. He looked… frazzled. Wild. 

“I’m just getting water,” Peter stage whispered. Then, “You alright, man?” 

Flash nodded, slowly. A child getting his bearing. 

“We’re not leaving for a while,” Peter said. “You should go back to sleep.” 

Flash stared at him for a few, confusing seconds. Then he nodded and laid back down, and Peter was standing alone in a partially lit room.

He managed to get back to sleep eventually. When he woke up again, Harley had his laptop open on the bed. He was sitting on the corner of the nightstand, leaning down in a way that couldn’t possibly be comfortable. His hair was damp from a shower. Even half asleep, Peter could tell that his expression was tight. 

“‘Cha doin’?” Peter asked. 

Harley’s eyes flickered to Peter, and he smiled. “Good morning,” he said. “You’re the last one up.” 

Peter pulled himself up onto his elbows and craned his neck to look at Harley’s computer screen, eyes searching the top left for a clock. Harley minimized the tab. 

“Ned and MJ spent ten minutes arguing over where to go to breakfast,” he said. “I’m surprised it didn’t wake you.”

“You learn to sleep through it,” Peter said, eyes flashing back to the factory-setting screensaver.  _ He couldn’t have been looking at…  _ Peter didn’t even let himself finish off the thought. It was too uncomfortable. There were other people in the room, for God’s sake. “Who won?” 

Harley looked back up at him. Peter nodded sharply.

“MJ,” they said together. 

“You better get dressed,” Harley said. “We’re leaving as soon as Flash gets out of the shower.” 

\--

“Hey-- do you sleepwalk?” Peter asked Flash as they slid into the booth. The air was greasy. When he breathed in, he could feel it at the back of his throat. The seat was sticky, too, and Peter decided he didn’t want to know why, actually. 

Flash sneered. “No?” He said, the implied  _ dumbass  _ at the end ringing plainly in Peter’s ear.

Peter half-raised his arms. A needless surrender. “You were just… weird last night, is all. Do you remember me talking to you?”

Flash looked at him. His eyes glinted with recognition. He shook his head. Cleared his throat.

“Who are you always texting?” He asked Harley, who had his nose buried in his phone. Again. 

Harley looked up, a deer in the headlights. “Oh, uh… Sorry, I’m not trying to be rude, there’s just a guy I’m…” He pulled a face. “Talking to.” 

When MJ and Ned’s eyes darted to him, Peter didn’t acknowledge them. 

“Oh,” Flash said. “I--” He looked at Peter, too, a quick glance, and Peter kept his eyes trained on the placemat-menus. They were covered in grains of sugar. He could feel them collecting on the pads of his fingers as he flipped the menu over.

“Cool,” Flash said lamely. “That’s great, man. Congrats.” 

Harley nodded, tight-lipped. “Yeah, thanks.” 

“The waffles look great,” Ned said. “I think I’m gonna get the waffles. Who’s with me?” 

The waffles tasted like ash. Everyone else seemed to like them, though.

\--

They made it to the Hell Is Real sign just in time for lunch. Flash had offered to drive from the diner to the billboard, but they’d stopped halfway there for sandwiches and to kick Flash out of the driver’s seat after he’d nearly gotten them killed on four different occasions. 

(Harley had put his hand over the driver’s door when Flash had reached for the handle. Shook his head. “No.”

It had caused an argument. Not one born out of vitriol, but of genuine concern.

“What do you  _ mean  _ you thought you could turn left on red?” Peter demanded as they called the fire drill outside of the rural 7-11. “We were in the same driver’s ed class!” 

“We live in New York!” Flash shot back. “No one follows the laws of the road there!”

“They should! They absolutely  _ should!”  _

They were yelling over Harley, who had somehow ended up on the hump. He leaned forward, his forearm resting on MJ’s headrest. 

“Are they always like this?” He asked her. She pulled an earbud out of her ears. 

“That’s still a shitty argument, though,” Peter continued, “Because we’re  _ not in New York.” _

“We have the tags! People should know to steer clear!”

“Newsflash, asshole-- people steer clear of your car because you drive an  _ Audi.”  _

“Mmm,” MJ considered. She looked over at Ned. “What would you say?”

“Normally worse,” he said. “Though Peter doesn’t normally stand his ground.” 

“Look at him now,” MJ said. “All grown up.” Then, to Harley, “You’re welcome to stay up here with us.”

“Chill vibes only,” Ned agreed. “Either of you got gum? I’ve got coffee breath.” 

“I’ll check the glove compartment.”

“An Audi’s not even an asshole car!” Flash defended. “It’s not, like, a Prius. Or a Lexus-- or a BMW.”

“BMWs are  _ cool,”  _ Peter said. “They make a sound when you start them up.” 

“Oh, please, Parker-- you’d stick a racing stripe on a clunker and call it high class!” 

“Hey--” Harley warned, already whirling around. “Keep the tax bracket out of it.” 

“I mean, you only got to take the road test because some rich guy took pity on you for a day. By lending you, need I remind you, an--”

MJ sighed. Turned in her seat. “Flash, we all know your parents bought you the Audi as an apology for forgetting your birthday. Don’t take credit for things you didn’t earn.” 

The car went silent save for the sound of the road. 

“MJ,” Peter hissed. She just put her headphones back in.

Flash slunk back in his seat.)

They’d all been nicer once they’d eaten something. 

As unnecessarily cruel as MJ could be sometimes, it worked to end debates. 

It came from a place of love-- Peter knew that. Four years of pent-up silence. He also knew she felt bad, though an apology wasn’t guaranteed. MJ made decisions and she stuck with them. It was a side effect, Peter considered, of being MJ. 

Even one-on-one there was an element of her that demanded divine judgement. A masquerade mask. She worried she wouldn’t be taken seriously, so she forced the round peg into the square hole. She feared as deeply as she loved. She tried to convince herself that she loved a little more. She defended, violently, to prove it.

Peter did feel bad, though. He’d been the one to suggest inviting Flash and  _ he  _ was the first one to pick a fight. The point of inviting Flash was to… 

Peter thought about Flash standing, alone, at his high school graduation. No friends running over to congratulate him, no family expressing pride. The least Peter could have done was play nice. 

Peter dragged himself back to the present. 

They had a great view of the infamous billboard through the windshield. Peter sat with his back against the door. When cars passed, he could feel the drag. A jarring pull. 

It was underwhelming. White text on a black background (save for the ‘H’). Arial font. Surrounded on all sides by grass. 

His trash was balled up in his lap. Harley tapped his knee and held out his pickle, eyebrow raised. 

“Thanks,” Peter said. He tuned back into the game.

“Marry Gamora,” MJ said easily. “Fuck Bill Gates. Kill Hawkeye.” 

Flash nearly choked on his coffee. “Kill Hawkeye?” He repeated. 

“Yeah, man. He went rogue and killed, like, a ton of people.” She was sitting backward in the passenger seat, one knee pulled up to her chest. She took a bite of her sub. 

“So did The Winter Soldier,” Ned said.  _ “And  _ Black Widow.” 

MJ shook her head, mouth still full of turkey. “Ish diffrn,” she said. She swallowed. “It’s different. They’re both redemption stories. He was a hero and  _ then  _ he went…” She made a stabbing motion with her hand and imitated the screeching music from  _ Psycho.  _

“But still,” Harley said, “Over Bill Gates?” 

“I’ll seduce him for his money,” MJ said confidently.

“Parker,” Flash said. 

Peter took a sip of his water and made a sound of recognition. 

“Norman Osborn, Spider-Man, that guy from the Shamwow commercial.” 

“I think I’m contractually obligated to kill Norman Osborn,” Peter said regretfully. “But, man, I’d love to take out the Shamwow guy.” 

Everyone else murmured their assent. 

“I feel like you want me to say I’d marry Spider-Man,” Peter said. “Unless you want him-- I could just be a side hoe.” 

“All yours,” Flash said. He rolled his eyes. 

“I’d screw him,” Harley said. Heads turned to him, and he shrugged. “Being married to a superhero sounds exhausting. Plus, why marry someone cooler than me when I can just have bragging rights?” 

And Peter’s stomach  _ didn’t  _ somersault at that. Not after Harley’s earlier mention of  _ the guy he was talking to.  _ The tips of his ears were hot, but it was just from the sun coming in through the window. It was because, even with the windows down, it was hot in the car. 

“Well, Spider-Man’s not cooler than me,” he forced himself to say normally. “We’re on even footing.”

“What makes you so sure he even swings that way?” Ned asked, like he’d been sitting on the joke, and MJ threw a cheese puff at his head. 

Flash snickered. “So you’re fucking the Shamwow guy?”

“It seems like I’m fucking the Shamwow guy,” Peter agreed. 

If he was quiet the rest of the game, it was because he was tired, not because he was thinking about the way Harley had smiled at him when he’d called Peter cooler than him.

\--

**Hey,** Peter texted Tony,  **How’s everything going? Did you remember to get Mrs. Johnson’s groceries? She needs them by tomorrow, she hosts family dinners on Sundays.**

Tony’s response was simply:  **I’m blocking your number.**

\--

The night air was cold for late June. Peter wrapped his arms around himself and stared into the pool. The wind sent gentle ripples across the surface, and the streetlights above it reflected down onto the bottom. A pattern like veins, moving and tracing along the concrete. 

He’d snuck out to take a call from May. She asked him normal questions-- was he having fun? Was everyone wearing sunscreen? Were they all being nice to Flash? Did Harley get along with all his friends?-- and Peter answered her with a thumbnail pressed between his teeth. 

He’d managed to get off the call without her asking him what was wrong.

(and nothing-- nothing was wrong.)

He’d seen Harley slip out of their room a little after he had, phone pressed to his ear. 

Someone opened the gate. Harley sat in the chair beside him. 

“Tony called me.” He leaned forward, arms balancing on his spread legs. He’d changed out of his jeans into a pair of worn pajama pants. “He told me to tell you to chill out. Something about ‘you have no faith in him.’” 

Peter scoffed. “I’m just checking in,” He said. “Making sure the city’s okay.”

“And if it’s not?” Harley raised an eyebrow at him. “You gonna swing back home?” 

“If I have to,” Peter said. He grinned at the pool. “Hitch a ride on a truck.” 

“You could write your own guide to the galaxy,” Harley mused. He was looking up. At the stars. There were more here than there were in New York, but there were less than in Tennessee. They were settled just on the edge of Columbus, more than nine hours from home. Then he asked, “Did you know that the water filtration system originates from Columbus?” 

“No,” Peter said, looking over at him. “Why do  _ you  _ know that?”

Harley shrugged. “I read the Wikipedia page on the way over.” 

How casually he said it made Peter’s chest burn.

“Of course you did,” Peter said fondly. He was grateful, suddenly, that they were in a shallowly lit place. He was sure affection must have been printed across his face-- a newspaper of emotions and admissions that weren’t made to be brought to light. 

“Tony’s right, you know,” Harley said, and Peter had been so caught up in his mental lamenting that the atmospheric change startled him. 

“Huh?”

Harley looked away from the stars, looked right at Peter. “You need to cool it. You’re on vacation, you just graduated-- loosen up a little bit.”

And the way he looked at Peter, like Peter was something precious, made Peter feel nauseous and off balance. Like a rug was being pulled out from under him, bit by bit. 

_ Uh, sorry, there’s a guy I’m talking to  _ he heard Harley admitting into the stuffy air of a diner. The rug was pulled in the other direction.

“Cool it,” Peter repeated, over-enunciating. “Yeah, I guess I can try that.” 

“Are you just saying that so I feel better?” Harley asked. “Because, honestly, I think he  _ will  _ block your number.”

Peter laughed. “I’m being serious,” he promised. “I will try to  _ cool it.”  _

“Good,” Harley said. He nudged Peter’s knee with his own. “I want you to have fun. I want  _ us  _ to have fun.” 

It sounded brutally honest that Peter wanted to bottle it up and wear it in a jar around his neck. 

“I  _ am  _ having fun,” Peter assured. 

“Then act like it-- Tony called you a buzzkill.”

_ “Tony?” _

“Yeah-- it  _ should  _ hurt,” Harley teased. “He’s boring.” 

Peter scoffed. “Fine, I’ll stop Britta-ing it.”

“Thank you,” Harley said. “There’s one more thing.”

Peter groaned.  _ “What?” _

“Morgan told me to tell you to bring her a souvenir.” 

“She might like you more if you got her one,” Peter said.

“Nice try, Parker. We both know I’m her favorite.”

Peter gawked at him.  _ “Absolutely  _ you are not. You had a five year head start and I’m  _ still  _ the one she asks to babysit.”

“Because you don’t live thirteen hours away! She sees me less-- that gives me an advantage.”

“God, what alternate universe are you living in?” Peter asked. Harley reached into his pocket and pulled out a box of cigarettes.

“A better one than you, it seems like,” he said, and Peter  _ tsk _ ed.

“Heed the sign, Keener.” He pointed to the  _ no smoking  _ sign plastered on the gate to the pool. 

“No one’s around,” Harley said, pulling his lighter out of the box.

“You know how I feel about municipal rules,” Peter said. Harley grit his teeth and shoved the cigarettes into his pocket, muttered  _ buzzkill  _ under his breath. “And, for your information, any alternate universe I live in is cool.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, man.” He stood. “I’m gonna go find a place to smoke where a lifeguard won’t blow his whistle at me. I’ll meet you back at the room.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who was kind on Pressed Flowers, you guys really got me excited to get to work on this fic! 
> 
> If you want, feel free to come talk to me on Tumblr @dredfulhapiness I love talking headcanons (and also hearing people's theories/thoughts), taking fic requests, or anything else!


	2. Be good or be gone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "And you tended your garden  
> Like heaven and hell  
> And you built the birds' houses  
> To see if it helped at all"
> 
> Quick cw for this chapter: there's mentions of blood & violence, but it isn't particularly graphic!

_ The air smells like snow when they step out of the movie theater. It isn’t particularly cold yet, but the threat of a winter chill is present in the city air, and they’re wearing heavier coats than November usually requires.  _

_ “I thought it would be scarier,” Gwen muses. She’s tucked under Peter’s arm. When she turns to look at him, Peter gets a whiff of her shampoo-- peach and thyme. “The trailers were creepy enough.”  _

_ “That’s where the editing budget went, I guess,” Peter says.  _

_ The lights on the marquee twinkle. Peter can’t make out the words above him. They’re shifting glyphs, their meanings unrealized.  _

_ It’s the most clear thing in his view. Everything else around him is stripped to their base colors, like an unfinished video game level. People pass, but their faces have no discernable features. They’re translucent. Ghosts.  _

_ “A waste of twelve dollars,” Gwen said. “Next time, let’s just go to the library.” _

_ Peter’s footsteps stutter. Gwen notices. She pulls away from him, not so far that his hand isn’t still steady between her shoulder blades, but far enough that she can face Peter. “What?” she asks, one eyebrow raised. She smiles at him, a hint of teeth.  _

_ “N-nothing,” Peter says quickly. “I just-- wasn’t sure if there was going to be a next time.” _

_ Her lips part. “Oh, uh… Right, yeah.” She shakes her head, like trying to get a thought out of her hair. “I guess I shouldn’t have assumed that you would want to--” _

_ “I do!” Peter yelps. “I just…” He searches her face. She’s watching him carefully. Waiting. “It’s nice to hear you say it, that’s all.” _

_ Gwen  _ hmph _ s. “It’s settled, then,” she says. “There’ll be a next time, and we’ll do something cheaper than seeing a c-grade horror movie.”  _

_ She takes his hand from her shoulders and locks their elbows together instead.  _

_ They walk a few blocks. It could have been hours or minutes when Peter spots motion out of the corner of his eye. Something slams into his leg. He grabs at Gwen for balance.  _

_ The dog comes midway up Peter’s thigh. The fur around its face is long, and untamed. It looks at him with wide, pleading eyes.  _

_ “Uh… Hey, buddy?” Peter says. When he crouches, the dog doesn’t back away or growl. When he holds his hand out, the dog nudges his hand under it. “What are you doing out here?” _

_ “Does he have a collar?” Gwen asks. She kneels beside them. Peter feels around the dog’s neck. _

_ “No,” he says. He runs his hand down its side. Underneath layers of matted fur, he can feel its ribs. “How long have you been out here, little guy?”  _

_ He frowns. He grabs his wallet out of his pocket and hands it over to Gwen. _

_ “Can you run into that bodega?” he asks her, motioning across the street with his head. “Grab him a sandwich?” _

_ Gwen looks at his wallet for a few seconds, hesitant. She takes it. Peter watches her cross the street. The dog leans all his weight on Peter’s legs. _

_ Time is an unknowable, twisting thing. Gwen comes back eventually, and the tips of Peter’s fingers are sore from trying to carefully work the mats out of the dog’s fur.  _

_ “It’s just ham and bread,” she says, removing the wrapper.  _

_ She sits down straight on the sidewalk, her legs crossed beneath her. She holds the sandwich out, and the dog peels himself off of Peter. _

_ “I can’t take him home,” Peter says as they watched the dog swallow down his meal. Gwen shakes her head. _

_ “No,” she agrees. “You can’t. Harry’s allergic.” _

_ Peter frowns again. Gwen giggles as the dog licks her hand. Grateful.  _

_ “The shelters are closed by now,” Peter says. “I’ll have to come back in the morning.” He runs a hand along the knots of the dog’s spine. “Get you somewhere you’ll be fed and warm.”  _

_ “Awfully nice of you,” Gwen says. She looks at Peter, and her expression is warm. It reminds him of the Mona Lisa-- a quiet fondness. Like she’s thinking something Peter can’t quite decipher.  _

_ Peter shrugs. “It’s the right thing to do,” he tells her. “If I can help him, even with something that small… The little things add up, y’know?”  _

_ She makes a noise in her throat. Pulls her phone out of her purse. “I’ll see what time the shelters open,” she says. “That way we know which time to start looking for him.” _

\--

After Columbus came Indianapolis. Harley managed to cajole them into visiting the Motor Speedway Museum. They followed him through the display rooms as he gushed. 

He grew up on it, he explained when Flash asked him why the hell he knew so much about race cars in the first place. 

“Plus I worked in a shop during The Blip and my boss had this old racing Ferrari that he let me get my hands on a few times.”

Flash perked up. “You drove a Ferrari?” 

Harley made a shocked sound in his throat. “God, no. No one’s driven that thing since it was retired. I got to look under the hood, though, and the really cool thing about old engines is how they…” 

He talked with his hands, traced the outline of an engine out in the air, mimed the process of removing it with painstaking care. Like this, surrounded by Marlboro Indycars and lit from above, he was positively glowing. 

Vacation Harley was a beast Peter had never seen. In fact, he half expected him to start wearing Hawaiin shirts and referring to them all as  _ kids.  _

The Harley he was used to worked himself to the bone. He was always elbow-deep in metal and blood, jaw practically sealed together from the screws he always held between his teeth. The insinuation of a break was oft brushed off with an  _ in a little bit.  _

This Harley was someone else entirely. This Harley was bright smiles and easy distractions. He was punch-buggy and license plate game, keychains and knick knacks: a postcard from the motel office and a pair of novelty socks from the museum gift shop. Texts to Peter when he was refraining from punching Flash. 

His attitude was lighter. Jovial. 

He didn’t bring work up once, didn’t draw up a quick blueprint on the back of his placemat and slide it across the table for Peter to see. 

“What do you work on at Stark?” Flash tried to bring up a few times. 

Peter waited for Harley’s face to light up, for him to pull his phone out of his pocket and show off his projects until he realized Flash had grown bored. Instead, Harley evaded as politely as he could manage. 

“Ahh, you know, boring housekeeping stuff.” or, “I’ve worked on some basic tech designs.” or, “Nothing right now.” 

Peter was half-tempted to text Tony and ask if body snatchers had come to earth. 

_ Or maybe,  _ he considered,  _ this is just what it looks like when Harley has friends.  _

The thought of Harley alone for five years put a fist-sized hole in his chest. He imagined him straining to hold the world on his shoulders, hands braced against the things he could control. Tools and blueprints and a job at an auto shop just so he didn’t go all Jack Torrence on the confines of Rose Hill, Tennessee. 

Peter tried to imagine five years without May, or Ned, or MJ and his resolve crumbled like sand. 

\--

“I’m glad you decided to come,” Ned said. He handed Peter one of the duffle bags from the trunk of MJ’s car. “We weren’t sure if you would or not. You’re always pretty…” He glanced over toward where Flash was waiting for the prot-a-potty to free up. There was a bottle of hand sanitizer sticking out of his pocket. “Preoccupied.”

“I can use a break every once in a while.” Peter rummaged through the bag, frowning. “Plus, you know, with college I wanted to--”

“Nope.” Ned shook his head. “We’re not going there. It’s only June.”

“But I--”

“We aren’t getting sappy yet. We’ve got two more months to tear up the city.” 

Peter fought down the wave of vertigo that swept over him at the thought of their separation. Ned was heading to FIT in August, armed with his laptop and his brain. He got in without needing to cite the multiple times he’d hacked into Stark tech to the benefit of his friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. 

He was going to do great, Peter knew that. That didn’t make it hurt any less that they’d be so far apart. 

This was vacation, though. They were here to have fun.

“Alright, fine.” Peter zipped the bag up. “It’s not in here. Are you sure you brought it?” 

“Duh. Do you think I’d miss a chance for MJ to destroy me at Quiplash?” 

Peter leaned against the car. Through the open windows, Peter could smell nail polish. MJ had her hands drying on the dash, flat in the sunlight coming in. 

“Want me to do yours?” She offered. Peter shook his head. 

“Some brands are toxic to bugs… I don’t like to risk it after the whole Off! incident.” He waved his hand. “I like the blue, though.” 

“Any luck, Ned?” she asked, glancing through the rearview mirror.

“Not yet.”

“There won’t be any internet to play here, anyway,” Peter pointed out. 

They were parked on the side of the highway. There were a few picnic benches, a trashcan, and a single, suspicious Port-a-potty. They’d stopped to eat and stretch their legs, but the half-hour break was looking like it would be more of a two-hour pause. 

“Not when I’ve re-programmed my phone hotspot to be strong as hell.” 

Peter laughed. “Of course you did.” 

“Maybe I threw it in your bag?”

“You’re free to check. It’s the blue one.”

“Are we taking bets on who’s gonna win?” MJ asked. 

“Everyone would bet on you,” Peter said. “You’re the funniest.”

“I think I might have some stiff competition. Keener’s not boring.” 

_ “Please  _ don’t let him hear you say that. His sister and I are trying to keep his ego in check so he doesn’t move to Nashville and try standup.” 

“Is that a genuine fear?” Ned asked. 

“He’s got the personality for it, and I refuse to associate with a comic.”

MJ made a sound of understanding. 

Ned glanced up from the trunk. “How are you doing, by the way? With the whole… Harley thing.”

The wave returned. Peter planted his feet firmly in the sand and swallowed down the rancid taste. “Fine.” 

MJ turned in her seat to raise an eyebrow at him. 

“I  _ am.”  _ Peter crossed his arms over his chest. The bag slipped and nailed him in the crotch. The whine he let out was involuntary and loud.

“That’s why we don’t lie,” MJ said. Peter flipped her off, still bent at the middle. She returned the gesture, her newly-painted nail sparkling in the sunlight. He hadn’t noticed the glitter before.

“There’s nothing to be upset about,” he said when he’d managed to somewhat regain his composure. “We’re friends, I’m happy for him.”

“Has he told you anything about him?” Ned asked as MJ said,  _ well at least you know he’s into guys.  _

“We don’t talk about that kind of stuff,” Peter said. The way Harley grimaced before forcing out the words  _ talking to  _ played back in his brain. “And he didn’t exactly seem thrilled to mention it in the first place, so I’m not going to ask about it.” 

“Lying to yourself isn’t healthy, Peter,” MJ said.

“Neither is breathing in nail polish fumes,” he shot back. “Sorry, that was rude.” 

“I think you should say something,” Ned said. “Honesty is hot and all that. That’s why they call it hotnesty.”

MJ laughed. “Literally  _ what  _ are you talking about?” 

“He might find it endearing! Or romantic. You know, like when people crash weddings in movies.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything before,” Peter said. “I’m  _ definitely  _ not going to say anything now. No wedding crashing.”

“Alright. No wedding crashing.” Ned shrugged. “Your loss-- Oh! I found it.”

He held his laptop up with a grin that smoothed the stress in Peter’s neck.

\--

“It’s for you.” 

Peter looked at Harley’s outstretched hand, then at his face. 

“Did he actually block my number? I haven’t texted him in three days.” They were outside of a rest stop an hour into Illinois, kicking at pebbles in the parking lot as they waited for the others to grab Starbucks. 

“Hello?” 

“I need your help.” 

Peter blinked. “Sally?”

“Do you do home appearances?” 

He cleared his throat. “What?”

“With the whole Spider-Man thing. Do you, like, visit people at home?”

A strangled sound escaped Peter’s lips. He shot a look at Harley, but he was focused doodling with his finger in the pollen layered on the trunk of the car, a half-smoked cigarette hanging from his lips. 

“What do you mean Spider-Man thing?” He struggled.

“Oh my God, Peter, I’m not stupid. Do you do house calls or not?” 

“How did you--”

“I go in the shed, too, you know. That’s where we keep the vegetables. Look, the kid I babysit loves you and no one showed up to his birthday party this weekend. I told him that  _ maybe  _ I could get Spider-Man to show up to his house and, like, hang out with him for a few hours.” 

“Sorry, you know about... “ he glanced around, “y’know?”

“You’re  _ still _ stuck on that part?” She asked, as if they’d cleared it up years ago rather than the ten seconds she’d given him to process the information. “You never even bothered to hide the suit, and it  _ obviously  _ isn’t Harley.”

“He could be.”

“No, he couldn’t.” 

Peter sighed. He rubbed at the bridge of his nose, grit his teeth. “Get me the address,” he said. “I’ll stop by next time I’m in town.” 

“You’re the best surrogate big brother!” 

“And yet you only say that when you need something.” 

Even though he couldn’t see her face, he knew she was grinning. Instead of denying the (incredibly true) accusation, she asked, “How’s Harley?” 

Peter glanced up at him. He was focused on whatever he was drawing on the car. 

“Good. I think? I mean, he  _ seems  _ fine? Why? Shouldn’t he be?”

“Down, boy. Relax. He was just really worried about you guys having a good time.” 

“Oh, did he not think he would--” 

Sally groaned, drawn-out and dramatic. “He wanted  _ you  _ to have a good time,” she clarified. “One last hurrah. Y’know?” 

“Uh.” He didn’t know, actually. He was opening his mouth to say as much when Sally said,

“Alright, I’m gonna call Matt and tell him he’ll be getting a visit from Spider-Man soon. Thanks again, Pete. You’re a real one.” 

“Uh, yeah. Talk to you later, Sal.” 

The line went dead. “She doesn’t have my number?” Peter asked. He held Harley’s phone out to him.

“Guess not.” Harley pocketed it. “Or she just wanted to be a pain in the ass. You never know with her.” He was fluent in backhanded fondness. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah she just needed a Spider-Man appearance.” 

Harley winced. “Was it the--”

“Canned goods? They’ve bested us again.”

Harley put a hand out. “I’m really sorry, I never thought to hide it, I’m usually the only one who goes in there.” 

“I’m really not worried about it,” Peter said. “I trust Sally to not, like, blow my cover.” He cleared his throat and leaned forward on his toes to get a better look at the trunk of the car. “Whatcha drawing?” 

A shoddy, cartoonish Spider-Man mask stared up at them. Harley wiped it away with his hand. 

“Nothing.”

The silence that fell over them was awkward and heavy.

“So I--”

“Did you--”

Harley shook his head. “You go.” 

“At the party the other night you said you wanted to talk to me about something. I just figured while we have a second…” 

Harley’s jaw twitched. It was minute, a fear response. He shook his head. 

“It’s nothing that can’t wait a few more days,” he said, and the cheerfulness of his tone made Peter’s stomach twist. 

“Are you sure? Because we can…” He could hear Ned and Flash, though. If he strained, he could make out their debate about the ethics of finding General Hux hot. “Yeah, alright.” 

\--

They found the drive-in movie theater by accident. One mile marker, they were driving on open highway, the next the shoulder was filled with cars lined up, four-ways twinkling stars in the twilight. The marquee boasted classics in bold, black letters. A marathon of the Back to the Future movies. 

“That’s six hours,” Flash mused as Ned took the U-turn. 

“Six  _ great _ hours,” Harley pointed out. 

“Well,” MJ said around a mouthful of skittles, “it’s four great hours. We just have to sit through the second one.” 

Ned gasped, wounded. “Michelle!” He scolded. “How could you even say that?”

“They set it too near into the future. Twenty-fifteen? They didn’t even give themselves thirty years for the movie to be outdated.” 

“It’s not that bad!” 

“The costumes alone ruin the movie. And the  _ technology…”  _

“Impressive for the time,” Ned defended.

“Not  _ this  _ time. Not for ten years ago.”

“The hoverboards are still pretty cool,” Harley offered. “Someone should get to making those.” 

“I give Oscorp a year and a half,” Flash said. 

“Ouch. No faith in Stark?” Peter asked. 

“Stark makes crappy phones and shit for the Avengers. That’s it.” 

“Harsh,” Ned said, “But kinda true.” 

“Not entirely true,” Peter said. “We’re working on bettering public transit. You’re on that team right, Harley?” 

Harley’s lip pulled back. Just slightly. “Only a little bit,” he said. “Just threw a few ideas in the ring-- Someone’s coming up on your side, Flash.” 

They didn’t pick the conversation back up after they bought tickets.

\--

The windows were cracked and the air was sticky. Over the staticky sound of movie dialogue, Peter could hear the chirp of summer bugs. Ned offered him the bag of popcorn and he took a handful. 

On the screen towering over them, Marty McFly was desperately urging his hoverboard to move even as his foot pushed off of stillwater. 

“I’m starting to see MJ’s point,” Flash said. His feet were on the dash, one arm resting on the door. “It’s so… chrome. Like, what are they  _ wearing? _ ”

_ “The fuuuuuuture,”  _ Peter and Ned crowed at the same time. 

“We need a daily Spongebob reference limit,” Harley said. “This is getting out of hand.”

“Don’t bother. They had matching Spongebob pajamas until sophomore year.” MJ took a sip of her soda. Ned scoffed.

“They still fit, thank you  _ very  _ much.” 

“Also, they’re badass,” Peter agreed. 

“At least they’re not doing their Rocky Horror routine,” Flash muttered.

“Sorry, your what?” Harley twisted in his seat to look at them, an eyebrow raised. 

“They have a call and response to Back to the Future,” MJ explained.

“And most Star Wars movies,” Ned added. 

“And The Great Gatsby,” Peter finished. 

“The Leo one?” 

Peter nodded. “The Leo one.” 

“We watched it Sophomore year and they nearly got kicked out of class.” In the reflection on the windshield, Peter saw Flash roll his eyes. 

“We’re comedic geniuses,” Ned said. “We can’t help it. We speak and the universe chuckles.”

“Poetic,” MJ said, “Have you considered she’s laughing  _ at  _ you?” 

“I’m far too handsome to be laughed at,” Ned said. “Peter, on the other hand…” 

“Love you too, man.” 

Peter shifted so his knee was hooked over Ned’s. Ned threw an arm over his shoulder. 

God, he’d missed this. 

Since Spider-Man, finding time just to spend with friends had been close to impossible. There was always something in the way: homework, or suit adjustments, or reviving the dead and dealing with the guilt, or a poacher working to kill him. 

He forced himself to focus on Ned balancing the bag of popcorn between their laps. On the movie. On MJ pointing out  _ see? That scene looks awful!  _

On anything other than the guy Harley was flirting with, or the mysterious conversation he was saving until after their “one last hurrah.” Or what that could mean.

He shoved a handful of popcorn in his mouth. 

\--

_ Peter should be in bed; he has an exam in the morning. He should have snuck back into the dorm room an hour ago, suit shoved at the bottom of his backpack and making conversation with Harry like he hadn’t spent the evening chasing Felicia through downtown. Instead, he’s laying on the roof, eyes trained up at the hazy blue night sky.  _

_ There are no stars. There never are— not in the heart of Manhattan. If he closes his eyes, though, he can see them layering on top of each other, a night sky of black. Like he’s in space. Like he’s seen them before, up close and personal.  _

_ He can’t remember being particularly into astronomy. Ben had taken him, once, upstate. They’d brought the telescope that had been in the hall closet for as long as Peter could remember. Dust came off on his fingers as they unpacked it; it turned the trunk of the car a faint grey.  _

_ They hadn’t seen anything interesting. No planets, or meteors, just shoddily traced constellations.  _

_ They feel cold now. Unforgiving. Like someone absent in his life. _

_ He can’t explain that.  _

\--

Ned was the last to wake in the morning. Still shaking off the remnants of sleep, he squinted at Peter through the mirror. 

“What do you think of Betty?” He asked instead of saying  _ good morning.  _

“What?” Peter asked around a mouthful of toothpaste foam. He spit into the sink and turned to look at Ned. He wiped his mouth with his wrist. “She’s great-- you said she couldn’t come because she has an internship with the Bugle.” 

“Yeah,” Ned said. He shook his head, like trying to clear water out of his ears. “I’m not sure why I asked that.” 

\--

The gas station was lit in opaque yellows that was deepened by the sick green that striped the walls. They’d pulled over with the sunset, stopped to get food while the GPS politely reminded them they had another twenty minutes until they’d reach the motel. 

“What do you  _ mean  _ you’ve never used an ATM?” MJ demanded. She was a few feet behind where Peter was browsing chip selections. 

“I’ve always had my card on me, I never needed to.” 

“There’s a  _ ton  _ of places that are cash only, Flash. Do you not shop at small businesses?” 

_ Uh oh,  _ Ned mouthed. Harley covered his mouth with his hand. 

“She already publicly ate his heart this week,” Peter said. “Should we--”

“MJ, salt and vinegar or sour cream and onion?” Harley held the two bags up for her to see. 

She met his eye from down the aisle. Her lips twisted into her signature half-smirk, tight and knowing. “Salt and vinegar,” she said. Then, “Here I’ll just— I’ll show you how the ATM works. We’ll talk about small businesses later.”

Harley clicked his tongue. When he faced Peter and Ned, he wore a self-satisfied smile. 

“Alright, get over yourself,” Ned said. “We’ve all stopped MJ from publicly reaming Flash out.” 

“I think he could use it,” Harley said. “He told me I was ‘too cool’ to be friends with Peter.”

Peter snorted. “If that’s the worst he’s said, it’s been a good week.”

“It wasn’t. Trust me.” 

“He once got the whole debate team to boo me when I showed up late to a contest.” 

“Ouch.” 

“He also tried to shove him in a locker once, but Peter didn’t fit,” Ned added. 

“That’s not  _ exactly  _ how it happened. The situation was a lot more nuanced than that. He’s just…” Peter got stuck on a descriptor.  _ A total dick pain? The human embodiment of backwash? The bane of Peter’s high school existence?  _ They all seemed too mean. Also, dramatic. “He’s Flash.” 

“Ever the poet,” Harley said. “So why is he here if he’s such an ass?”

“Because inviting him was the nice thing to do.” Peter wandered toward the drinks. 

He didn’t mention graduation, or the anonymous tip made to the guidance counselor. He didn’t bring up, either, how the bags under Flash’s eyes had darkened over the past few days, or how he’d wake in the middle of the night to see Flash thrashing under blankets. Or, worse, sitting in a horrible silence. 

“You get used to him,” Ned agreed. “He’s like a mole that grows on your arm and ends up being benign. He’s harmless.”

If not a little annoying. 

The bell above the front door rang. Peter asked Harley which flavor Monster he wanted. Ned held up a flavor Vitamin Water with a suggestive tagline.

Harley leaned over Peter and grabbed the mango one. 

“Gross,” Peter said. He got himself a water. 

“It’s the only flavor that’s actually good,” Harley corrected, and Peter bookended the sentence with another  _ gross.  _

_ “You’re _ gross,” Harley answered half-heartedly. In his hand, his phone lit up, and his gaze shifted down to it.

Peter fended off the wave of... What? Jealousy? He had no reason to be jealous. Even still, it ran down his spine in a wave, set light to the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck. It twisted in his gut, something violent and churning, and--

Peter blinked. Got a grip. He knew this feeling.

He wrapped a hand around Harley’s wrist. Harley turned off his phone and gave Peter a look that suggested Peter had two extra heads he didn’t know about. 

“What’s up?” He asked, pitched-up.

“Get the others out of here,” Peter said, keeping his voice low. 

Ned poked his head around the open door of the glass fridge. 

Automatically, Harley opened his mouth in the shape of a question. Then, he took in Peter’s expression and closed it. He nodded instead. “On it.” 

“Need help?” Ned asked, and Peter shook his head. 

“Just get out of here, I’ve got it.” 

While they headed to the ATM, Peter meandered his way to the front of the store. He kept his eyes pointed to the snacks. Twinkies, some kind of Hostess monstrosity with sprinkles. They looked gross, also delicious. That wasn’t important. 

The bell rang again. The store was quiet. 

He could hear smalltalk coming from the direction of the register. 

“--Not usually busy on weekdays,” the cashier was saying. “But with summer right around the corner, it’ll probably pick up. That’ll be six seventy-five.”

“Sorry, I only have a ten.” The customer’s voice shook. She covered it up with an awkward laugh. The cashier didn’t seem to notice.

“No problem, that’s what we’ve got change for.” 

The cash register opened. Peter heard the scrape of coins on the metal tray. 

Then something clicked.

“C’mon,” he muttered under his breath.  _ “Really?”  _

“--The money in the register. I don’t want to hurt you.” 

Basic stickups were the most boring type of crime to fight. Peter preferred museum robberies or the promise of Doom Bots. Spicy criminals. 

He kicked over a box of mints. The robber whirled around, fumbly aiming the gun at him.

“Whoops,” he said, holding his hands half up. He stepped forward. “Sorry. Clumsy.” 

“Don’t move!” She warned. Her hands trembled. Peter took another step. 

“If you need money, I have some cash. Just put the gun down, okay? No one needs a weapon.”

“I said don’t move!” She shifted the gun back to the cashier, Peter swallowed down an annoyed sigh. “The money. Now.” 

Peter stepped forward again, within arm’s reach of the shoddily wielded weapon. “Put it down,” he said again, a command rather than a request. 

Her finger twitched on the trigger. 

Peter grabbed the neck of the gun, jerked her arm to the side. 

The sound it made when it went off echoed in his skull. She loosened her grip, and Peter stumbled away with the weapon. 

It couldn’t have been more than a few heartbeats. He dropped the gun, kicked it far behind him, opened his mouth to say something but he found her starting, green-gilled and gaping behind the counter. 

He followed her gaze and his vision swam. Blood pooled under where the cashier lay on the ground, surrounded by half-submerged twenty dollar bills.

“You--” Peter started, trying to wrap his disoriented head around the sight, but the bell over the front door rang. When he looked back, she was gone. 

Peter stood in the silence-that-wasn’t-silent. It was the hum of lighting and the ringing in his ears and the  _ drip drip drip  _ from the slushie machine. It sounded like the guidance counsellor’s office. Like a kitchen where somebody had died. Like a nightmare.

He stared at the horror scene. He imagined all the things he could have done differently, scenarios that didn’t end with bodies. A sudden disjointment of his life. 

He bit down, hard, on his thumb. He tasted copper where his cuticle pulled away from the nail. The sharp flavor jerked him back to life. 

A fleeting thought: a blooming flower. 

“It’s okay. It’s okay. Okie dokie. This is fixable. This is fixable, I am a walking solution. I am X. Th-this is a non-issue. I can… I can totally…” He forced himself to step behind the counter. His knees were useless, like his legs were made of pool noodles. “I can help you.”

He fell beside the still cashier just as the bell above the door rang again.

“Pete! Pete?” Harley’s voice shook. 

Peter sucked a deep breath in, pressed a trembling hand to the side of the cashier’s face.

When he slid quickly away, a trail of blood came with him. It painted the floor, a horrible modernist streak. He could feel it soaking through his pants. 

_ I’m gonna be sick,  _ he thought, but nothing came up. 

“‘M here,” He forced out as he watched the cashier come back to himself. His nametag said  _ Jeremy,  _ and a trail of blood elongated the tail of the  _ y _ . 

Ned’s head was the first to pop over the counter. “Hey, man, are you--”

“Fine,” Peter said quickly. “Ambulance. Call a-- you need to call a--”

“Jesus Christ,” and that was Flash, he looked down at the scene with wide eyes. The cashier was looking around, fingers scrambling on slick linoleum. Peter could hear, through someone’s speakers, ringing. “Why the fuck are you just  _ sitting  _ there? Help him!” 

“Are you  _ hurt?”  _ Harley asked, and Peter shook his head. 

“I’m fine,” he said again, more confident than before. The ringing in his ears was fading. He couldn’t hear the slushie machine over the sound of movement. Over MJ putting a hand on his elbow and pulling him up. Over Flash pressing napkins to the cashier’s wound, mumbling apologies under his breath. Over Ned talking on the phone. Over Harley asking him if he was alright, was he okay, was he hurt, what happened? 

And Peter wanted to yell  _ I’m Spider-Man, for fuck’s sake I can handle a robbery!  _ He wanted to yell  _ It’s my fault he got shot I should have been more careful.  _ He wanted to yell  _ this wasn’t supposed to happen again.  _

He couldn’t find his voice, though. Not until he was talking to the paramedics and local law enforcement stammering his way through an explanation, stomach bottoming out as he demonstrated with shaky hands how he’d tried to help.

One of the EMTs slapped a hand on Flash’s shoulder, commended him. He hardly reacted. It made the hair on the back of Peter’s neck stand straight up.

\--

There was still blood under Flash’s fingernails two hours later. He’d spent a long time scrubbing them. The gas station bathroom water had run red, then clear again, and he’d kept his hands under the faucet, rubbing his hands raw. 

He sat beside Peter and hung his head.

The car ride was quiet. Through the speakers some indie pop band sang about wanting to get better and Peter felt worse than he had in months. 

He felt like he’d lost a limb.

He felt like he wasn’t supposed to feel like this anymore. That he’d worked so hard to feel unbothered and human and this was a failure. 

He’d saved him. The cashier was alive and he’d stay that way. Why was Peter still swallowing down a rock of guilt?

When his phone rang, Peter didn’t look at the screen before answering it. 

“Hello?” He croaked.

“Hey, Spider-Man. This is Doctor Farrow. I’m calling because--”

“Shit,” Peter said. Flash and Harley looked at him. He pulled himself closer to the window and lowered his voice. “I missed my appointment, didn’t I?” 

“I have a 24-hour cancellation policy,” she said. “But I wanted to call and make sure you’re doing alright. I haven’t seen anything about you swinging around lately.” 

“Yeah, I’m. Uh.” He glanced around the cabin of the car. Harley and Flash both looked pointedly at their phones. Ned leaned forward and turned up the music. “On vacation.”

“Oh?” She says, the word pitching up in a question. “Well, that’s great. Will you be here next week?”

Peter swallowed. “I’ll try to be— I’ll definitely call if I won’t be able to make it.” 

“Is everything alright? You sound stressed.” 

“I just really hate missing appointments,” He said, and cringed at his own excuse. “We can unpack that next time. Have a good night.” 

\--

The motel was uglier than most. Five total rooms and a main office that looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since the Bush administration. Flash didn’t even snark some comment about how they should start carrying Swiffers around with them. 

Peter’s feet felt like anvils as they trudged to the room. He wanted to lay down and sleep. He was worried about what his brain would look like when he was finally alone in the dark. 

He hadn’t had the nightmares in a while. Not since they’d been replaced with half-formed scenes of people he didn’t recognize, with names that slipped from his brain when he woke. 

MJ put a hand on Peter’s shoulder before he could make it through the threshold of the open door. “We’re gonna stop by the vending machine.”

“Grab me a water?” Flash asked.

Harley glanced up from his phone. “Me too?” 

MJ shot them a thumbs up. Grinned. Her grip on Peter’s shoulder hurt. 

They rounded the corner, Peter squirmed away. “I know it’s dark over here but you could have just  _ asked  _ me to come,” he said, rubbing at where her nails had left imprints on his skin. 

“He was shot in the neck.” 

Peter’s hand stilled. “What?” 

“The cashier, he was shot in the  _ neck.”  _

He took his wallet out of his pocket and flipped through the billfold. 

MJ’s stare burned the side of his face. 

He winced. “I know, I was there.” The image was seared onto the back of his eyelids. If he focused hard enough, he could still feel the weight of the gun in his hand.

_ I was trying to help,  _ he reminded himself in Dr. Farrow’s voice.

“I’m going to say something insane,” MJ said, “and you’re not allowed to laugh if I’m wrong.” 

Peter punched the number for a pack of Twizzlers. Nothing happened, and he pressed it again, harder this time. The numbers lit up on the screen. The stagnant candy mocked him.

“Peter?”

“I won’t laugh.”

“You’ll tell me if I’m right?” 

He kicked the vending machine. The thud echoed off the brick. The Twizzlers remained on the hook. There was pressure building in Peter’s ears. Like he was underwater.

_ “Peter.” _

“Yes-- yeah, I’ll tell you.” He turned to look at her. The only light illuminating them was from the vending machines and a single, dying lamp behind them. 

Exhaustion flickered across MJ’s face. Her arms crossed over her chest. She was looking at him intensely, searching him for some telltale traces of lies he hadn’t even told yet. Or, maybe, it felt like, for lies he’d been telling himself. 

(The expression threw him back two years, to when she’d looked at him with the same expression and said,  _ you know I know you’re Spider-Man, right?  _ And Peter had been so startled he’d replied  _ no,  _ you’re  _ Spider-Man.) _

“I think you brought him back to life. The cashier. There was no way he could have survived that.” 

Peter didn’t laugh. MJ waited. 

“You’re right,” he said, because he’d promised. 

She blinked. “I’m right.” Then her face fell like Rome; marble distressed. I’m-- I’m  _ right?” _

Peter nodded. He swallowed. 

“You’re not fucking with me right now? Because honestly I don’t think it’s funny--”

“Why would I lie?” 

She covered her mouth with her fingers, lips parted. 

“Okay,” she said. “Okay. That was definitely one of my weaker guesses, but it’s good to… Peter,  _ what?”  _

“I know-- I know, it’s a lot.” 

“A  _ lot?  _ Pete, you gotta give me  _ a lot  _ more information.” 

“Okay. Okay, yeah. Right, I know. I know.” He prodded at the buttons again, this time a weak attempt at distancing himself from the conversation. 

He could feel his nerves light up. An icy heat the sudden root of his soul. He leaned back against the wall.

“We need to go for a drive,” MJ said decisively. “Text the others we’re picking up something to eat.”

\--

They didn’t put music on. 

MJ sat quiet while Peter explained himself; Kitchen floors, and smoking busses, and ravaged battlefields. The story was lab rats and blood cells, and she didn’t flinch away from either, even when Peter’s voice caught as he explained feeling like life could be something manageable now, despite the fragile garden he had sowed around himself. 

How today it had come crashing down, all because he’d reacted with a knee-jerk rather than skill. 

“He died because of me,” he said to the windshield. He watched the treeline light up in increments. 

MJ hummed. He turned his head to look at her, and she pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, narrowed her eyes. “And you saved him. Stop feeling sorry for yourself.” 

“What? I’m not feeling--”

“You are. You’re also being self-important.” 

Peter grit his teeth. He could see her looking at him from the corner of her eye, mouth set in a frown. “Fine,” he said, “I’ll bite.” 

“No one expects you to bring people back to life. Not as Spider-Man,  _ definitely  _ not as Peter Parker. It’s stupid to put that on yourself.”

“But if I can--”

“I can dislocate my shoulder at will,” She said. “Pop it right out of its socket. I’ve gotten out of a few tests because of it, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.”

“So what? I should just let people die?” It came out harsher than Peter had intended. MJ’s jaw twitched at the serrated edges of his words. 

“You should do your best.” He watched her knuckles go pale around the steering wheel. “And this?” She waggled her hand in his direction. “This moping? It’s not a very heroic look. Hang-ups don’t save the next person.” 

They pulled into the drive thru-lane. MJ pulled up the group chat and read off the orders into the speaker, and Peter leaned his head against the window. 

The car rolled forward. MJ offered, “You’re allowed to have bad days. Today? That was shitty. That was… I’m sorry you had to see that, and I’m sorry you feel guilty about it. But forcing blame on yourself where you shouldn’t? That doesn’t help anyone, Pete. Definitely not you.” 

Peter thought of Dr. Farrow.  _ How do you react when you can’t meet expectations?  _ He thought about months of unlearning, stacking his fears and guilt and stress into mental boxes and sending them down the figurative river. Dreaming of tending gardens, pulling weeds and plucking minor fourths from the breeze. He buried them in the soil and hoped the dissonance grew into something beautiful.

“You’re right,” he said. MJ put the greasy, paper bag full of food on his lap. 

“I know,” she said, fishing a fry out of it. “You should call your therapist. About today. And Flash should  _ definitely  _ call his. Poor guy looks like he’s seen a ghost.” 

“I should talk to him.” 

“Maybe. That’s not your job, though.”

“I know, but it probably won’t feel like dislocating my shoulder.”

MJ hummed. 

\--

_ The dream is grief. It’s more feeling than sight; realizations that layer on top of each other, jumble up, and leak out as a scream.  _

_ MJ’s hand is holding his. He can see that. She rubs her thumb against the back of his hand. _

_ There’s no rain, but it feels like there should be. Peter’s chest is thick with it, like he’s drowning. He breathes in and his lungs expand. He’s still alive. _

_ Peter thinks,  _ I’m sorry.  _ It doesn’t feel like enough. It feels like emptying the rooms of a house before moving. It feels like reaching into his chest and ripping out his own heart.  _

_ “It’s not your fault,” MJ says as if reading his mind.  _

_ Peter doesn’t argue. He can’t argue with her. Not anymore.  _

_ “We should get you home,” she says, and looking at her is looking at the sun. Her hair is tucked back behind her ears, brighter in the sunlight than he had ever seen it.  _

_ Peter thinks that she shouldn’t look so beautiful. That it shouldn’t be so sunny.  _

He woke up, and Flash was awake, too. Neither of them addressed it. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whenever I think about Gwen Stacy I turn into the heart eyes emoji I really hope that translated... 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! As always I'm on Tumblr @dredfulhapiness please feel free to come talk to me there! I love chatting! comments and kudos on here are also always appreciated! Also, drink some water!! It's good for you!


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